


Regret

by antlered_fox



Category: Moominvalley (Cartoon 2019)
Genre: Angst, Blood and Injury, Broken Bones, Cussing, Gen, M/M, Pneumonia, Starvation, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:01:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27927928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antlered_fox/pseuds/antlered_fox
Summary: During a particularly harsh winter, Snufkin falls during a major blizzard and finds himself trapped. Low on supplies and with very little hope, Snufkin does his best to escape; though sometimes things are not meant to be.
Relationships: Mumintrollet | Moomintroll/Snusmumriken | Snufkin
Comments: 2
Kudos: 40





	Regret

**Author's Note:**

> Based off of @stariitea's post: https://stariitea.tumblr.com/post/184815055409/regret-why-didnt-i-tell-him-noncannon

He was an idiot. God, he was such a god-damned fucking idiot. Snufkin shivered violently as the cold, bitter wind rushed at him once more, billowing his heavy winter cloak from underneath. Snufkin pressed further into himself, breathing warm breath onto his freezing hands. He should have gotten thicker gloves, he knew he should have, these were so worn down from over-use. He thought perhaps another year would be fine. Another winter. 

He had not expected this. He knew Mother Nature can be a cruel mistress, but he had underestimated her. While most years were a mild winter, some were a bit harsher. Tougher. But this one…it was different. No other winters had been this rough, at least, not for him. He has always been well prepared, but the cold…it was on a different level. He had not seen a living soul in days or any signs of wildlife as he traveled. It was as if everything decided to disappear, and he was simply a splotch of color on a blank canvas. 

He thought himself to be a masterful navigator. And why shouldn’t he? He has been traveling all over the world since he was younger, exploring caves and forests, dancing in festivals of various towns, trading, camping, fishing, living life. But one blizzard…one stupid blizzard and a stupid decision to keep walking past a town instead of staying at an inn. 

All it takes is one mistake. Snufkin knew that. His mother warned him, more seasoned travelers did as well, and he understood that perfectly. Traveling was incredibly dangerous. Robbers, running out of food, getting lost, meeting a wolf, all were very real and concerning circumstances, and that is not even considering the effects of nature. Yes, he had a few run-ins with tornados, dust storms, the scariest was a flooding that occurred overnight, and he barely got out alive. But a blizzard rarely happened, and if it did, it did not last very long. But he was such an idiot, he should have considered going farther up north would result in a harsher winter, and harsher blizzards and…

He bit back a sob, tucking his scarf closer to his face. The wind stung his wet cheeks, and his tears turned to icicles digging into his skin. No, he would not cry. He is okay. Nothing is broken, bruised ribs, maybe, and a few cuts and scrapes. Nothing bad. He can do this. He will figure it out, he will get out, he always has. The young man stood up, the snow crunching beneath his boots, and turned to where he believed the steep hill he had fallen from just a few minutes prior was; he couldn’t tell exactly where, as the storm blowing around him prevented him from seeing very far. He could possibly climb back up when the blizzard passed and make his way back towards the town he saw just hours earlier. He mentally slapped himself for being so stupid. He should have been patient. He should have stayed at the inn, like his instincts told him to, but he had moved on, believing he would reach the town of Soliya two days later. But then the blizzard came, and suddenly he could not find the path again, or signs, and then…then…The sudden drop seemed to come out of nowhere, and when he woke up…

Snufkin shook his head. “Enough of that,” he said to himself. The wind blew harder, bringing his mind back to the current events. He was scared, yes, but he is okay. The man kept repeating that to himself, he is okay. He will make it through. He just needs to figure it out. He could attempt to camp and wait out the blizzard, though there is not any telling how long it would last, and he had only a bit more food left. Snufkin opted for this route, figuring a shelter would get him a better chance than staying out in the open like he currently was. The man blindly made his way to where the hill was, and managed to find a few large boulders, one of which was pressed up against the side of the hill, leaving a small crevice. 

He dug away the snow, cringing at the sharp ice that threatened to cut through his thing gloves. He really should have replaced them. If—when –he gets out of this mess, he will get all new gear. Every year he would. And he will never go farther North again. No, he will stay close to…to Moomin, yes. He best friend. His chest ached a little as he dug, but he pushed the feeling away, focused on the task at hand. Many times, he had to stop and breathe onto his hands to warm them before continuing. Finally, after what seemed like an hour, he created a deeper crevice that would shield him from the cold. He pushed himself into the cramped space and set to work closing the opening a bit to seal in the heat of his own body. He did not have any wood for a fire, so he curled up tighter into his coat. Outside, the wind howled. 

Snufkin awoke sometime later and found the blizzard had ended. Hope surged in his chest as he clawed at the entrance, pushing himself up. The snow had built high, nearly to his thighs, which made it much more difficult and tiring to get through. He managed to get his way out and stood in the vast wasteland of white. He stood, out of breath, gazing at his surroundings. 

The cliff seems so much steeper at this angle, and he was appreciative that he had not broken anything in his fall. He could have so easily hit the rocks he sheltered under, had broken a leg or his neck, or—

He shook his head. Stop it. No sense in scaring himself, he had to be thankful for what had not happened and focus on what had. His next move was to climb, get out of this valley and move back to the village he passed. And when I get there, I will have a big shepherd’s pie and some ale. Snufkin’s stomach growled suddenly. He quickly pressed his hands against his stomach, stifling the noise with a groan. He should eat, but he only had so much left, perhaps enough for two days. It would be good to get out now, while he still had some rations. 

Snufkin pushed through the snow, approaching the boulders he sheltered under the night before. If he could get on top, he will be able to reach some ledges and continue up. He did not have the proper tools to climb efficiently, only his hands, but it will have to do. He shivered at the thought of losing his grip, of falling again. He could severely hurt himself then. It was risky, but he had to do it, otherwise…

Snufkin moved cautiously, climbing the wall to help get to the top of the boulders. He slipped briefly on the snow that covered them, but managed to catch himself, though his heart stuttered in his chest and he had to pause a moment to catch his breath. After a few moments, he continued, delicately searching for strong holds on the rough surface of the cliff. Snufkin took in a breath, gripping at stones and dirt, scraping his thighs as he pulled himself up. 

He did not dare look down, but he knew after probably thirty minutes, he had to be high up. It was slow going and exhausting, his fingernails were numb, and some had torn form digging into the ice for solid holds. He saw blood stain the snow lightly as he dug, but he still had so much higher to go. He gazed up at the edge, so tantalizingly close. But it was easily another hour of climbing to get to. If he had the proper tools, he would have been nearly there by now. He cursed himself for being so ill-prepared. For sure, he would pack tools in his pack just in case. And a flare. And extra food. Screw it, he would not travel again, he would just as easily settle down in some village, move back and forth between the seasons during the time his friend was awake. He could be a farmer, or perhaps a gardener, something calmer, less risk. 

But it was too late now. Snufkin scolded himself for not staying focused and continued moving. The sky was overcast, so he could not see how late in the day it was. If it got dark before he reached the top, he will surely fall. The thought panicked him, and he moved faster. 

That was his mistake.

In his impatience and fear, he clutched onto a loose stone, but before he registered it, he had already moved his stable hand. Snufkin let out a yell as he scraped down the side of the cliff, rocks and dirt and ice cutting into his legs and face and arms. He fell so fast and so suddenly he barely registered when he hit the ground. But he felt the pain almost immediately. 

Snufkin screamed, feeling bones grinding in his foot. He gasped in lungful’s of air as if he were drowning. Sobs wracked his body that shook violently, either form cold or pain or shock he did not know. He felt his vision spotting and he breathed again, trying to calm down. Don’t pass out, don’t pass out…It seemed forever, but the darkness went away, and he looked down at his leg. He had thankfully landed on the snow and not on the boulders, but his left foot was jammed tight in a crevice and twisted in a bad angle. It did not seem broken, but it was already swelling. Snufkin moved to get it out, but it was jammed. The movement itself sent horrible pain right to his head, causing him to cry out. 

“No, no…” he whimpered, his voice strained and weak. Any hopes of climbing were completely out of the question now. He was not sure if he wanted to try again anyways. Despite this, he was lucky. Lucky to be alive, lucky to have landed on the snow and not the boulders sitting only feet away. He surely would have died then. But if he did not escape this now, he would freeze. Shakily, Snufkin looked around him, searching for something to help get his foot out, but there was nothing but snow and ice and…his gaze settled on some rocks that had fallen with him, on a particularly sharp rock about the size of his hand. He stared at it for a long time, contemplating it. He could cut into his foot, but the risk of bleeding out was high, and he did not have the supplied necessary to staunch the bleeding for…a day, perhaps, but definitely not longer than that. And if it gets infected…His stomach churned at the second thought. Of smashing the rock onto his ankle, of getting it flexible enough to…to…

Snufkin nearly lost consciousness again but swallowed hard, steeling himself. He had no other choice. He took a few breaths before moving towards the rock, reaching and stretching. Of course, it was just out of his reach. He gasped as he felt his foot twist. He stopped, stifling a cry. After a few more moments, he breathed, and thought and settled on an idea. Snufkin sat back up, quickly unwrapping the scarf from his neck. Immediately, the cold bit into his skin and he shivered. He leaned as far over towards the rock as much as possible, holding one end of the scarf in one hand and the other in his right. He swung the U-shape over, managed to get it behind the rock, and pulled forward. The scarf slipped over the rock. Snufkin let out a frustrated noise, threw it again, only to have the same thing happen. 

“Please…please…” he pleaded to no one in particular. He tried again, this time pulling downwards and managed to get it to catch on a sharp point of the rock. He could not help but let an excited breath escape him as he pulled it towards himself. Closer and closer, until he grabbed it tight in his hand and he sat up again, the scarf back tucked around his neck. Snufkin was exhausted, hungry, tired, cold. But he had to get out, one way or another. 

He held the rock in his hands, staring down at his trapped foot. He breathed, slowly, trying to calm himself. The more he thought of it, the more he would hesitate. So, he clenched his hands tightly, gritted his teeth and swung down as hard as he could. A strangled cry ripped from his throat as the rock collided with bone. He felt his foot shift, but not enough. Of course not. Snufkin breathes shakily, tears sliding down his cheeks as he raises the rock again. Another strike, a sickening noise, another scream. He lets out a string of curses as he yanks his foot hard. One more hit, that is all he can muster. Just one more, either break the damned thing or dislocate it or something. The rock he holds is spattered in blood, the snow around him stained as well. He raises the rock again, way over his head. He lets out another sob, takes a breath, and down it goes. 

Snufkin breathed hard, laying on his back staring up at the grey sky. The pain in his ankle throbbed, but he was free. The rock was discarded somewhere, he had dropped it as soon as it was not needed. It was a bloody mess; his ankle was badly broken now and there was no way he was walking again with the way it was. Just the sight of it made him sick. And he was, he turned and wretched violently, coughing and sputtering. Bile clung to his lips, which he shakily wiped away with his sleeve. He can only hope someone would be by soon. But the wind has picked up again, a promise of more snow to come. He wanted to scream to whatever god that existed, to curse, to cry. But he only lay there breathing. He will have to put a marker of some sort, a bright color as a sign that he was there, and perhaps another traveler would notice and get help. Hopefully. 

He dragged himself back into his little makeshift cave, which took nearly the rest of the day. His broken foot made it especially difficult, jolting him and forcing him to stop every few moments to catch his breath from the pain. A trail of blood had followed him, not a lot, but enough to be concerning. By the time he climbed into the threshold, it was darkening, and snow was starting to fall rapidly. He practically fell down the slope into the cave and immediately curled up for warmth. He was exhausted, in pain, covered in cuts and scrapes. A nasty bruise had bloomed on his side, probably from slamming onto the ground. He fumbled through his pack and pulled out his lantern and paused. He only had so many matches left, which could be saved for a fire. But the more he thought of it, he realized he may not be able to have a fire at all. The valley he had fallen into had very little wood, most of which was soaked and frozen from the snow. Useless. His only chance for warmth was form his blanket, his coat, and the lantern. So, he scraped a precious match, once, twice, thrice, and finally the tip bloomed into flame. He placed it to the wick and huddled near it, staring at the glow. 

He imagined staring into the fire at Moomin’s, how warm and inviting those nights by the mantle were. He would play his harmonica, tap his foot to a beat and Moominpapa would sing or maybe Moomin would tell a story. They would have hot soup and coffee, and perhaps some cobbler fresh from the oven. Snufkin’s stomach growled angrily, not having had any food for nearly two days now. Maybe some granola…just enough to keep my energy up…He reached into his pack again and pulled out one of his bars. The sound of the wrapper was enough for his mouth to water, but he forced himself to open it slowly, to eat it with care, to savor it. It was gone far too soon to his liking; his stomach demanded more. But he could not risk it, he only had a few days of food left, and there was no telling how long he would be trapped down here. His mind drifted to his harmonica, how the shrill notes might be heard. Three short ones, SOS. He figured it would be worth a try. He dug in his bag and pulled out the instrument, tucking it between his lips in that familiar hold. He breathed in and played as loudly as he could those three notes. He paused, listened. Nothing. He waited longer, played again. Every five minutes, for two hours, three notes. No response. With a sigh, he set the instrument down and curled up on his side. 

Snufkin floated between the realms of consciousness and unconsciousness, a dull ache in his stomach and a sharp one in his foot keeping him from fully slipping under. He remembered suddenly the white willow bark in his pack, how it would help with the pain at least on some level. Groggily, he reached again into his pack and withdrew it, chewing on it roughly and sucking. It did not help much, but it numbed the pain a little. He sighed and tried again to sleep. All he saw was himself standing over his lifeless body. 

Snufkin had to get a signal out somehow, to show to anyone passing by that a person was trapped. Although the chances of someone deciding to leave the path and look over the edge were low, there was still some slim chance, and it was a chance he was willing to take. He had found a long and thick stick buried under the snow in the cave; it had stabbed him a bit sometime in the night and he feared for a moment it was a snake that had bit him. He nearly laughed at the discovery of the stick, but he felt angry instead. He wanted to yell, to break it to pieces, to burn it for kindling but just as he was about to snap it, he stopped. 

Flag…Yes, yes, a marker, a flag. Snufkin shuffled closer to the entrance, to the snow outside. The sun was out, reflecting on the surface and blinding him for a moment. He could go out there and put a flag, and maybe a passerby would see and…Snufkin clawed his way up the slope and into the valley, army crawling through the cold, the stick held tightly in his right hand as if it were a lifeline. He breathed hard, forcing himself to continue forward. His foot throbbed and protested, but he gritted his teeth and pushed. Finally, he turned and saw he was quite a bit away from the boulders and far enough away from the cliff to be seen if someone looked down. He tugged his scarf off, the wind biting at his skin again, and tied it to the stick. It was clumsily done, but he felt it was good considering the circumstances. He jabbed the stick sharply into the snow, pushing hard until he felt it was sturdy. He lay there for a moment, staring at the yellow scarf billowing in the wind, and felt tears sting his eyes again. He felt hope. 

Another day has passed. Or so he thinks. Snufkin lay beside his lantern, staring at the flame and the amount of oil left. There was not much left at all, and his food supply was pitiful. Only a few more granola bars, an apple, and some mixed nuts. He had barely eaten anything the past few days, and now it had reached the point of possible starvation. He ran out of water two days ago and resorted to melting the snow slowly over his lantern. His energy was low, he was weak, and all he could do was sleep most of the time. He had nightmares, mostly, of watching himself die. Lately he has had dreams of drowning, and if he took a guess at the developing cough and the ache in his lungs, he could see why. Pneumonia. It is no surprise he has it, given the circumstances, but he could not help but feel bitter about it. 

Sometime in the next day-- or maybe the day after he was not sure, he was not sure of anything anymore –he decided to check on the flag. He decided to check on the flag, the color itself would cheer him a bit, and the possibility of someone seeing it still gave him hope. Snufkin struggled to pull himself up the slope; his foot was now a nasty purple and yellow, but there was not much he could do about that. As he emerged, he turned his head and saw the stick. And only the stick. Snufkin stared for a while, watching, as if the scarf would miraculously reappear. 

“You’re kidding me…” he says quietly. The stick did not respond. The wind must have ripped it from the stick, undone that horrible knot he had done, how lazy, how short-sighted, how—

“God damn it!” he screamed, and pounded his fist into the snow, burying his face in the frozen surface. Hot tears flowed freely, his screams of anguish echoing around him. His tantrum did not last long, perhaps only seconds, because moments later he lay motionless on the snow, breathing hard and coughing so harshly his body shook. After he was done coughing, he lay still, breathing. He stared at the stick. There was no helping it now. He would die down here, and no one would know, not even Moomin. Completely preventable, had he not been so stupid. 

And I wasted precious energy…he thought. His tantrum exhausted him. Defeated, he pushed himself back and disappeared once more into his crevice. 

He was not sure how long it had been. He was out of food now, having eaten the last of his nuts yesterday. His stomach protested, causing him to curl up tighter into himself. He felt hot and feverish; his cold had gotten worse. The oil in the lantern ran out just an hour ago, and the wind was picking up again for another storm.   
He was going to die. Snufkin knew he was, there was no denying that. Not unless some miracle happened. He gave up the harmonica strategy long ago. The notes were hidden by the howling wind, and he doubted anyone would be wandering around in this weather. No one as stupid as him, anyhow. What’s done is done, no sense beating yourself up about it. He was angry with himself. He knew he was crying again, precious water going to waste. His foot throbbed painfully but he was barely aware of it at this point. He was more inside his head now. 

Snufkin focused on breathing. Such a simple act was hard to do now, due to the cold and the horrible pain in his lungs. He had been coughing up phlegm, and he knew that was good to get out, but the fact it was inside him was not. Not that it mattered now. 

He fell into uneasy dreams, which flowed seamlessly between his thoughts, so it seemed as if he were awake when he was not. He did not think he minded the difference, though he preferred to be in the world where it was warmer, and he was with friends. Most of his thoughts turned to Moomin, of the adventures they had, of the things he would miss, but mostly just Moomin. His smile, his laugh, his eyes. Sometimes Snufkin dreamed of sitting in the living room next to Moomin before the fire, and Moomin would be talking and talking, of all the things they were going to do once he came back home and Moomin woke from hibernation. 

Moomin would miss me. The thought made Snufkin’s heart lurch, more tears welling up and spilling onto his ruddy cheeks. Moomin would wait for him like he always did. He would run down the pathway first thing after waking up and come to the bridge. He would wait and wait for a Snufkin who never came, growing more confused and hurt as the time passed. Would he think I had abandoned him? And suddenly Snufkin really was crying. The tears flowed freely and continued to come as he desperately tried to wipe them away. His breaths became hysterical as he completely lost himself to the image of a heartbroken Moomin. No more walks, no more naps, no more fishing trips or quiet conversations. Gone. Because he was stupid stupid, goddamned stupid—

His foot throbbed and Snufkin let out an anguished cry, both from the foot and the emotional pain with Moomin. His body hurt, his heart hurt, cold and miserable and hungry, god, so hungry…How long had it been? Four days? Five? A week? Focus on that, focus on something else…Okay. Yes, he remembered. Six days. Six days ago, he passed the town with the inn. He had food then, and it was warmer and—Focus. 

He should have stayed put. The minute a blizzard had hit, he should have stayed where he was and waited for it to pass. He would have been low on food, yes, but he would know where he was, and his foot would not be broken and—

Enough. He thought miserably. 

He could imagine the warmth of the Moomin home. Moominmama had freshly baked apple pie ready and a mug of hot cocoa in the chilly autumn time. Moominpapa sitting in his armchair by the fire, reading his newspaper and muttering of inconsequential things happening in the world. And Moomin…god, Moomin, always so sweet, so excited, so happy to see him no matter if they had just seen each other two minutes before…he would be talking away to Snufkin about something or other between bites of pie and Snufkin would always listen and listen. 

I could listen to him for eternity. Snufkin thought. Moomin has such a soft voice, one he could feel himself sinking into, soft like Moomin’s bed had been. Warm like his body next to him. He remembered sleeping over, lying in Moomin’s bed. He had wanted to touch him then, pull him close, snuggle into his fur like he did when they napped on the riverside on sunny afternoons. God, why hadn’t he? Snufkin balled his hands into fists and pressed them into his sore, wet eyes painfully, gritting his teeth. He should have told him how he felt. Should have held his hand more, slept beside him more, listened to his breathing, kissed him—

Breathe. Snufkin did, raggedly, but successfully. Listen to him breathing. In his mind, he lay beside Moomin, tucked in his bed under a heavy quilt, watching him in the dark, watching the white mound curled up and fast asleep. His breaths so soft, so comforting. Snufkin breathed with him. Calm down, it will be alright. In his mind, he watched his friend sleep, and he felt his own eyes become heavy. He had so much to say to him, but he could not remember what, and besides, he was tired. He had not realized how tired he had become, but he was grateful Moomin was there with him. He has been so scared lately, but he was not sure why. He did not have a reason to be, his friend was there, sleeping peacefully, waiting for him to join him in his dreams. In the morning, once they awoke, there would be so much to do, so many fun things, especially with Moomin. Whatever it was Snufkin was scared about, he did not think it mattered. Right now, what mattered is Moomin, and matching his breathing. So Snufkin breathed, focused on Moomin’s relaxed expression, on the breath that gently brushed his hair into his face. Their breaths mingled, slowly…steadily…

Snufkin allowed himself to sink.


End file.
